


His Last Goodbye

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Death, F/M, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multiple times, im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2343353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And if one tried hard enough, they could pinpoint the exact second that the light drained from his eyes. They could tell you when the realization hit, and when he knew it was real.  They could tell you right when his mind snapped from “this is just a dream” to “this has become my worst nightmare.” They could tell you when his heart shattered and when he knew his life would never be the same.  </p><p>They could tell you the exact moment that John Watson lost Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Last Goodbye

And if one tried hard enough, they could pinpoint the exact second that the light drained from his eyes. They could tell you when the realization hit, and when he knew it was real. They could tell you right when his mind snapped from “this is just a dream” to “this has become my worst nightmare.” They could tell you when his heart shattered and when he knew his life would never be the same. 

They could tell you the exact moment that John Watson lost Sherlock Holmes. 

He thought it was all just a mistake, something he could recover from, but no. He had already lost Sherlock once, and almost lost him again. But you know what they say, _third time's the charm_. 

He had suffered through the fall, going to Sherlock's side as his “lifeless” body lay bloody on the cement in front of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. He had checked for a pulse, held his hand, cried and mourned over the loss of his best friend, and he had kept himself awake night after night regretting those words he had never said, the truth that he had to leave unspoken because Sherlock had to end it, and John got his last words. 

John was his last goodbye. 

And for the next two years, that would haunt him. He would hear Sherlock in everything, see him around every corner. At the service, he mourned. He spoke words he never thought about, never expected he would need to. He said goodbye to his best friend and watched them bury him. He would visit the headstone frequently, any moment that he could. Sometimes, he would talk to it. He would beg Sherlock not to be dead, not to leave him like this. But it was never enough. It wasn't enough talking. He needed to see him, to hear him. He needed Sherlock to not be dead, and he wanted nothing more than to look in his eyes and know that he wasn't. 

There were many times that John could swear Sherlock was there with him, watching him for whatever reason, but when he looked around, he was alone, always alone. 

In those two years, he tried to move on, really, he did, and he had gotten there finally when he met Mary Morstan. He felt happy for the first time since Sherlock. Mary was perfect for him, he thought. They got along well, John would say they were in love, and he would take it all the way to the next level, asking her hand in marriage. 

Of course, that could never be for poor John, and right as he was about to ask, someone reappeared in his life. 

He was ecstatic, but he would never let anyone know that (Mary read him like a book, though). He was happy when he found Sherlock Holmes back in his life, mucking up his day and dragging him off on all sorts of adventures. For a while, he was happy. That was happiness to him. He had Mary, his fiancee, and he had Sherlock, his best friend. 

That happiness would fall. 

John would get married. 

Sherlock would meet Janine. 

They would meet Magnussen.

Everything would change again. 

He thought he had lost Sherlock again. 

In fact, he _did_ lose Sherlock again. 

But the damn genius had clawed his way back, and the first thing he said, 

“Mary.”

Now that was a bit odd, John thought, but he wouldn't raise a fuss out of it. Sherlock was back, Sherlock was alive, Mary was okay, Mary was pregnant, even! They were going to have a kid together! John carried on with his life, waiting for Sherlock to heal, but then everything changed again. All John wanted was a normal life, a loving marriage with his carrying wife, but everything spiraled to Hell again. 

Mary had shot Sherlock. 

Sherlock knew, that's why he spoke her name. 

He stayed otherwise silent to protect someone. 

John. 

He was furious. He wanted his wife, his child, his best friend! It was too much for John to handle. He needed a break, from everything. He barely spoke to Mary, barely spoke to Sherlock, only breaking his unanimous silence when he and Mary were invited to the Holmes abode to celebrate Christmas. How could he deny? He enjoyed Sherlock's parents, hell, even enjoyed Mycroft to an extent, and there was something about the new one that Sherlock had brought along (John didn't remember his name, was a bit surprised to see him there) that John rather enjoyed, even though he was a bit too much like Sherlock for John's comfort. 

Their Christmas, of course, hadn't gone according to John's initial plan. He suspected a nice evening, nice as it could be with the Holmes brothers, but Sherlock had to go and ruin that, contacting that vile Magnussen and offering something he knew he shouldn't, giving something up solely for the sake of his own stupidity, John thought. But then they arrived, Sherlock offered his end of the deal in exchange for.... No, that couldn't be right. John did a double-take nearly when he heard. All of this, Sherlock's life in exchange for Mary's freedom, destruction of all of the incriminating evidence, safety for her, the child, John. 

That night, Sherlock killed a man. 

“Tell Mary she's safe now.” 

He killed a man for Mary, for John. For their child, for their happiness. 

Sherlock Holmes had given himself up yet again for John Watson. 

Of course, that wouldn't stand without punishment. Sherlock was to be shipped off. He wouldn't last anymore than six months, according to Mycroft. It was a heartbreaking separation for John, and Sherlock had tried to make the best of it. “Sherlock is actually a girl's name.” They laughed, they smiled, and they bid farewell. 

But Sherlock was barely gone for a few moments before emergency called him back. He arrived back at word of Moriarty's return, and they were straight back into business, the solid “Did you miss me?” ringing through their minds. Off to solve another case they went, Holmes and Watson, inseparable even in exile. Mary tagged along the best she could for the first few moments, but John and Sherlock had both sent her home, she was much too far along with the baby, she couldn't keep up with them comfortably, and even then, John didn't want them in danger. He and Sherlock carried on, searching for anything they could find, bloodhounds trained to the sense of immediate danger. 

They hunted tirelessly for weeks to find Moriarty, only stopping when John received a message, Mary's water had broken. 

After 10 long hours, she was gone.

There were too many complications. 

Nothing could be done to save Mary. 

The baby didn't make it either. 

Her final words were an apology and a declaration. 

“I'm sorry, for everything. I love you, John.” 

He held onto her hand as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

But she still slipped away. 

John was devastated. Sherlock didn't know how to help, all he could do was be there, he supposed. So he did his best. He stayed with John, helped him move back into Baker Street. He was always there when John needed him, and he disappeared when he needed to be alone. John appreciated it all, and he wanted to thank Sherlock the best way he knew how. He allowed himself to get closer to him again. It took months to open up, to let himself grow close to Sherlock again (He had closed off quite a bit after his loss), but they were soon at it again, partners. The game was on, Moriarty was out there, and they were the only ones who could stop them. 

They kept close on his tail, following and solving a series of stupidly cryptic cases to get closer, to find out what he wanted to do, what he was going to do. The cases along the way weren't all related back to Moriarty. Some of them were just “poorly timed” as Sherlock said. They happened to coincide with his big case, his hunt, and they couldn't get his full attention even if they needed it. Sherlock was hot on his trail, and with every moment he got closer. 

That is, until the night that he lost again. 

They were closing in, they were almost sure that they had Moriarty, and this time, Sherlock wasn't going to let him slip away. Neither was John. So there they stood, guns raised, James at the end of the barrels. He looked smug, as usual, like he had something up his sleeve. John and Sherlock soon realized the red pins on their chests, heads, arms and shoulders. Moriarty had his team ready, snipers trained in case any of them got too confident and went after him. 

John didn't expect either of them to. 

Sherlock had different plans. 

When John and Moriarty both least expected it, a shot rang out in the room, and not a second later, Moriarty and Sherlock both fell. John knew within and instant, it was too late for them both. Sherlock had made the shot. 

So had the sniper. 

John fell to his knees next to Sherlock. It was like the fall all over again. He gripped his hand and checked for a pulse. It was weak, it was fading fast. Sherlock knew he had won, that must explain the smile on his lips. 

“Don't do this to me, Sherlock Holmes, not again.” John pleaded. He kept his fingers on his pulse, he tried to use Sherlock's scarf to keep him from bleeding out. It wasn't enough, the bullet must have gone through him. 

Sherlock's eyes met John's one final time. John assured himself this was a dream until he felt a weak grip on his hand, watched a small smile spread on Sherlock's lips, and he heard a soft sound, his voice. 

“Goodbye, John.” 

And he was gone. His pulse faded, his eyes went blank. John pulled him close and held onto his lifeless form, letting sobs thrash his body, letting himself break as he held onto Sherlock.

And if one tried hard enough, they could pinpoint the exact second that the light drained from his eyes. 

John was his last goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. This started as a late night drabble, it's not beta'd, I was playing with format. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy regardless (if this can be enjoyed? Cries )
> 
> -Krys


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